“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.” - Arthur O'Shaughnessy

Thursday, October 8, 2015

The New Hunger by Isaac Marion

I was asked a few days ago if I would be interested in reading this book and my first thought was, "Why are you even asking, heck yes I want to read this!!"I am a huge fan of Warm Bodies and also a fan of Isaac Marion's writing style so of course I was all over it.

In case you don't know this is the prequel - and pretty sure considered novella - to Warm Bodies, so you could read this first if you like. However I must say if you haven't read WB yet you really really should get on that. Like yesterday.This book follows R, Julie, Nora and Nora's little brother on their separate journeys as they all search for a new home and in my opinion search for themselves.I really liked this installment for so many reasons. One as I stated before I love Isaac's writing style so it was wonderful to read something by him again, especially something that takes place in the same world as Warm Bodies. I also loved it because it was great to see what happened before WB. It was a quick and easy read but it also makes you think and gives you some feels. Isaac has created this world that is tragic but strangely inspiring and I don't know a lot of authors who can do that. I will say that I felt this book was a lot more serious but because it was setting everything up I was okay with that.I'm so happy that I was sent this for review and because I loved reading it so much I might just pick up Warm Bodies again. I would most definitely recommend this be added to your TBR list.

And because I love you all so much and Atria Books rock, I have an excerpt for you!! :)

THE BEGINNING

This is not the beginning.

The beginning is darkness and fire, microbes and worms—the very first of us, killing by the billions on their way up the ladder. There is little to learn from the beginning. We prefer the middle, where things are getting interesting. Who are we? We are everyone. We are every thought and action. Time is just a filing system for the vastness of our Library, but we linger in the present with the unfinished books, watching them write themselves. The world is changing. The globe is bulging and straining, erupting and blazing with miracles, and we don’t know what shape it will take when it cools. Even with all of history inside us, we don’t know, and this is a little scary.

So we narrow our focus. We zoom in on a country, then a city, then the white rooftop of a stadium, where three young people are sitting on a blanket. The sky is dark. They are the only ones awake for miles around. It’s hard to catch a sunrise in the middle of summer—the sun barely sets before bouncing back up—but today the need to see beauty was urgent. They have seen too much ugliness. Their lives are smeared with it like blood and shit, so thick they can barely breathe, so today they’re on the roof in the cold morning air, waiting for the sun to wash them. Who are these people? Why do they interest us? They are not special—no one is—but there is something in them that draws our gaze. A short, pale girl full of strange dreams. A tall, dark girl with a promise carved on her heart. And a half alive man whose head buzzes with voices, who talks to us and listens without knowing we exist. We want them to know we exist. We want them to read our Library and share it with the world, because there is nothing sweeter than being known. But first we have to know them. We are books that read our readers, not a story but a conversation, and we open it with a question: Who are you? We circle around them, peering in the windows of their souls. What’s in there? Where did it come from? Show us and we’ll show you. Up and down the Library, from its bright ceiling to its black basement, pages begin to flutter.